Our old man and his comrades
Lingered to watch the river.
Suddenly the hubbub of the folk rose louder than the Gurgling river,
From over the bridge,
Men - wearing steel garments -
Were passing.

`Our old man asked:
"Who are these brave people?"

They answered:
"These are cavaliers."
- "Where are they rushing to?"
They replied:
"To the end of the world;
To the realm of pagans
Where the stalk of injustice has grown into a bulky tree."

Our old man said:
"Curses be on their souls; they have deserted the vicinity And march to distant regions."

Under the Cover...

Under the cover of the bowl
You were oxygen;
As long as you existed
The candle was alive within the bright circle of light
And didn't know
That a magic lies in the breath of your existence.
When you left
He understood
And died.

The
Scoundrels...

There are many scoundrels,
Unless the smoke rises from stick,
And turns into a big fire,
Otherwise I can't believe in myself,
- Or in others -
For our water is cold,
Our bread is warm
And our fists are in our pockets,
Yet we continually speak of fire and blood.

To the morrow

In the pleasure ground of the youth
Revive our memory
O friends!
For in the darkness of the night we,
Under the wild wing of the blood sucking bat,
Laid this bezel of bright morning
On the base of the future ring.
And our blood,
Red as the tulip,
Warm as the feverish lip of the enamored,
And pure as the colorless shape of the dew,
Poured on the walls in every street,
And painted the thirsty soil of each mountain
And stamped its seal on the cobblestone street in each city square,
And this is that soft silk of vermilion
Which you were weaving,
And this is that glowing fire of the geranium
Which was laughing in the big garden of the city,
And this is the ruby like lips of women
Which you desire;
And our spirits flutter
In the music of the eternal feasting,
And it is our love within the sheets of each book
Which you are reading.
You friends don't know
How loneliness melted our sick bodies,
What lips were branded instead of letting them to laugh,
And what hopes were destroyed in the whirlpool of blood.
But we have seen in our own time:
The silent fortification of the prison
Which is suffocating the melodies of life
And the pain,
That burned the body in its own furnace.
The bewitching talismans of wizards never worked;
None of us
Strayed from our path,
Neither compromised with the enemy;
And this morning which is laughing over your roofs,
And this wine which is boiling in your cups,
Attest our exertions, o friends!
Attests our struggles,
Attests our will
Which was further strengthened
By wars.